


Anonymous Askbox Smut

by witchwood_hull



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:24:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchwood_hull/pseuds/witchwood_hull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel are experts at snatching time for themselves even when they're working.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anonymous Askbox Smut

**Author's Note:**

> So Una asked for anonymous askbox smut on Tumblr. I obliged, she loved it and asked for more... This is the result. 
> 
> (I ended up writing it in a word document in ~75-80 word chunks, due to the 500-character limit. On top of that, you don't get to see what you send once you hit the button. It was an interesting experience.)

Teeth on his collarbone and a hand down his pants; a hard body pinning him against brick and he pushes up into the squeeze of the hand, bangs his head against the wall—

"Are you all—" 

"Yeah, fine, just don't—Don't stop—" Wet drag of tongue up to his earlobe and he groans, forcing his hands up to curl in tan fabric. "Cas... Bed." 

"Just, just let me—" Castiel's hand moves, stroking hot soft skin; Dean whines against his neck and shivers as he comes.

"God, Cas," Dean mumbles as he watches Cas licking his fingers clean. "What the _hell_." 

"I think I may be addicted to the way you taste," Castiel murmurs, trailing damp fingers along Dean's jaw. He leans in and kisses Dean, hands dropping to refasten the man's pants. 

"Seriously, dude," Dean says, shaking a hand free in favor of hooking two fingers around the knot of Cas's tie and pulling him into another slick-wet kiss. "Wanna see you spread out on a bed, like, now." 

"Sam?" Castiel says as he straightens up, toying with Dean's belt buckle. 

"Sam's got an all-night date with Greta's library," Dean says, smirking at him. "And if Greta has anything to say about it, her too." 

"I see." Castiel presses himself a little closer and a breath later they stand in the nondescript motel room the three of them had rented earlier in the day. 

"Awesome," Dean says, stepping back and lifting his chin at Cas. He's shrugging out of his jacket as he continues with, "You've got ten seconds." 

Dean's phone buzzes while he's fighting with the laces of his boots; he answers with a curt, "No, Sam." 

Castiel watches Dean's face, balancing on one foot while peeling his sock off the other. 

"Uh, sorry, no. Wrong number. No problem," Dean says, blinking a couple of times, then ends the call and turns off his phone. 

"Not Sam," Castiel says as he falls backward onto the blandly floral bedspread. 

"Someone looking for a Jack Harker or something," Dean says, taking the opportunity to drink in the sight of every last inch of _his_ naked Cas. "Mm."

Castiel stretches his arms up over his head as if reaching for the ugly wallpaper, spreading his legs and digging his toes into the equally unattractive carpet. "Are you going to stand there—Ah!" 

Dean makes an amused sound against the inside of Cas's left thigh, tongue sliding over the spot he'd just bitten. He's still working on his boots as he licks and nips at sensitive skin, pausing with his forehead against Cas's left knee as he _finally_ gets them off.  Once his boots are off, it's the work of seconds to strip out of the rest of his clothes.

It happens as Dean is scraping his teeth across the rise of Cas's hip-bone: Cas's fingers curl into the bedspread. Dean catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and laughs against Cas's belly as man-made fibers are replaced by divinely soft cottons. The mattress's give changes under his knees as well, and he lifts his head. "Seriously? Sam's gonna bitch." 

"Let him find his own angel, then," Castiel says, then curls up to kiss Dean again. He makes an approving sound into Dean's mouth as calloused fingers close over him, steady and sure. "Dean," Cas says, a minute later, back arching, "Dean, please—" There's not enough friction, not yet. 

"Please?" The question is mumbled into Cas's ear, Dean's grasp on Cas's erection slacking just a little more. 

"You're a wicked—" Castiel gasps, Dean's hand stroking over him with determined firmness— "Wicked man—"

"Righteous," Dean says, and sucks Cas's earlobe between his teeth. "How d'you wanna—Mm, what d'you want?"  
   
"For you not to talk with your mouth full," Castiel says, reaching over to flick a thumb over Dean's nipple. 

"Not gonna happen," Dean says, around the shell of Cas's ear; he teases it with the tip of his tongue. "Tell me, Cas, c'mon. Anything y'want, just say it." 

Castiel grumbles in annoyance and contemplates taking control of the situation. He decides against it, though he does turn onto his side and rub up against Dean. "I want _you_ ," he says, pitching his voice as low as he can. "Want to _see_ you, to _hear_ you, to _taste_ —Mm." 

Dean's kissing him again, leg hitched up over Cas's hip so they're pressed together pretty much everywhere. 

"Want you over me," Cas manages, when Dean stops (and why did he _stop_ no that was no good) for a moment. 

"Yeah?" Dean pushes Cas over onto his back once more, rolling with him so that he ends up straddling Cas's hips. "Like this?" He's got both hands in Cas's hair, but the tension in Cas's neck is all the angel's doing—he's pressing Dean's hands into the mattress, throat bared. 

"Yes," he says, then growls and arches as Dean bites his way down to the junction of neck and shoulder. " _Yes_ , Dean..." 

Dean pushes himself up just enough to see Cas's face, taking the time to revel in the feeling of skin on skin. Half-open blue eyes catch his and he drops his chin in the barest of nods; they close their eyes as one. The wash of sensation—technically intangible, purely metaphysical—rocks him the way it does every time, _triumph_ and _joy_ and _pride_ and _hope_ strung on a thread of possession that stretches between them, anchored in soul and grace alike. 

Cas opens his eyes just before Dean gasps, watching the way the man's face changes as soul and grace meet again. It's always better than the first time it happened, despite the fact that he has to keep his grace banked, keep it from escaping to wreak havoc on the local wiring—better because Dean _remembers_ this time, remembers _every_ time. Once Dean's smiling, however, he pulls his grace back and gets his hands into Dean's hair. 

"Seriously," Dean mumbles, because it's about the only thing he can come up with. He lets Cas pull him down into another kiss, heated and messy; they kiss and kiss and _kiss_ until they're breathless and moving against one another. 

"You really shouldn't keep me waiting," Cas says against Dean's mouth when they've finally stopped, drawing his nails down Dean's back. 

Dean bows into the touch and nips at Cas's lower lip. "Yeah? Mm." 

"Yes, Dean. I may be patient, but my patience is not infinite." 

Dean snorts at him and sits up. "Complete sentences, dude? Still? Thought I fixed that. Well." He rolls off of Cas, the bed, not bothering to feel ridiculous for landing in a crouch while completely naked and half-hard. A quick scrabble in his duffle and he comes up with his dopp kit, digging out a rubber and a tube of slick before crawling back up Cas's body.  

"How do you want me?" Dean smirks as Cas takes the things he holds, anticipation and desire sweeping over him. 

"Turn around," Cas grates out, shoving himself further up the bed and partially upright. "Now." 

Once Dean's turned around, he drops his shoulders a bit and wiggles his ass at Castiel (because he's got the average maturity of a twelve-year-old). 

Castiel takes a moment to marvel anew that humanity has managed to last as long as it has—teasing angels isn't necessarily conducive to remaining unsmited—then rolls his eyes and smacks Dean on the hip. "You're ill-mannered and I—" His toes curl as the unexpected wet heat of Dean's mouth closes over the head of his cock; Castiel forces himself to keep his grip light as his fingers dig into Dean's skin. 

"Heh," Dean says, a moment later, then closes his eyes and hums when Castiel spreads him open and _licks_ him in retaliation. The complicated twist of hot-want-wrong-more in his belly has him pressing his face against the rise of Cas's hipbone until the 'wrong' is ruthlessly ganked by the arousal flaring along his spine. "Cas, Cas—ngh—" 

Castiel's response to the sound Dean makes is to press his finger deeper, thumb pressing against the man's perineum at the same time. Dean groans again and drops his head, taking in as much of Cas as he can in one shot; he raises his head ever so slowly, cheeks hollowing as he sucks.

Ten minutes later, it's Castiel making needy little sounds against the back of Dean's thigh. "Dean, if you don't—Don't stop—" 

Dean laughs. "Don't stop? Ow," he says, when Cas bites him, then, "Fuck, that's good, Cas," when Cas's fingers crook and hit him just right. 

"Dean," Castiel says, his tone warning rather than pleading. " _Now._ " 

Dean rearranges himself, careful not to smack Cas in the head with a stray limb, until he's crouched above the angel. "Now? Mm." 

"There's a fine line, Dean, and you're—" Cas leans his head back from the hand that appears under his nose. 

"Gimme what I need and you'll get what you want," Dean says, smirking at him. 

"Really, Dean," Cas says, even as he slaps the lube and rubber into Dean's palm. 

"Yeah, really," Dean says, shifting over so that he can see what he's doing. "'Cause beds are for takin' your time. Quick an' dirty is for alleys and back seats, which is fine, but..." He shrugs and rolls the condom down over Cas's erection, then slowly strokes him slick. 

"But?" Castiel closes his eyes and breathes something indistinct as Dean leans over and presses a cheek against his. 

"But sometimes doin' it slow is the only right way to do it. So do it, already," Dean says, and follows up his words with a lick-suck-bite to Cas's earlobe. "Fuck me, Cas." 

_Yes yes yes_ and Castiel isn't sure if he's saying it aloud or just in his head as he fumbles between their bodies, fights gravity and confounded low-friction molecules (he can _see_ them; they remain indifferent to his glare because they are after all only chemical compounds) until Dean gives him a hand and finally _finally_ there's the heat and pressure he'd been aching for. 

"Good?" Castiel asks it anyway, though he can read the subtle shifts in Dean's expression and the tension in his body. He couldn't explain it if Dean asked—talking things through, asking for Dean's words were a way of leveling the field or not cheating or something. It's too complicated even for him at the moment. 

"Minute," Dean says, to the expanse of Cas's skin over his sternum. When he's ready, he pushes himself upright and not coincidentally a little further down on Cas's cock. 

"You are good," Castiel says, sliding his hands up over Dean's knees, "good to me, good for me, good good _good_ —Mm—" 

Dean drags his tongue over Cas's left nipple again, thumb and forefinger pinching his right as he does. He's eased forward, balancing his weight on his knees for the moment; when Cas makes another undignified noise he pushes back and grunts at the sensation.

It's a sweet stretch with a bit of burn at the edges and Dean relishes it—it's a twisted kind of thing to welcome pain, he knows it is, but pain's been such a big part of his life that _his_ scale _starts_ where most people have their fives. This, this is _maybe_ a negative two, and the only reason he stills is to keep Cas on edge. Well, that and so he can leave a nice little hickey on Cas's clavicle.

Castiel can't stop—doesn't even bother trying to stop—himself from touching as much of Dean as he can. His hands are restless, stroking and caressing and sliding and tracing over whatever he can reach, with one notable exception. There is time enough, will always be time enough, for them and for this; he bites his lower lip and makes a sound that's half approval and half just noise at the sting Dean's mouth leaves in its wake. 

Dean sits up, sits back on his heels and smirks down at Cas. His eyes are half-closed as he runs his hands over his own chest, down to his hips, over his quadriceps to catch Cas's hands and tangle their fingers together. He's never been sure just when they developed their ability to communicate solely through eye contact and shift in expression, but he doesn't care—the ability means that Cas knows precisely what Dean wants without anything as unnecessary as words.  

Castiel drives his hips up, his breath escaping him in a huff as Dean's fingers tighten around his. Dean holds tighter as Cas relaxes beneath him, then thrusts into him once again; holds tighter and lets his thoughts run free over words like _impossible_ and _redemption_ and _this_ , over _please_ and _how_ and _forgiveness_ , each one flickering through his mind like embers winking in a fire. 

The angel allows himself to whine, just a little, as he shakes loose of Dean's grasp and then carefully curls his hands around Dean's shoulders, tugging at him. He needs _more_ , more contact, more leverage, more of whatever he can have.

"Hm?" Dean leans forward, brows raised over half-open eyes. 

"Please," Cas says, "this isn't—" 

"Okay," Dean says and the next thing he knows he's flat on his back and getting kissed with every last bit of Cas's concentration. 

Dean runs his fingers through Cas's hair, then curls his hands into fists and breaks the kiss. "Gonna— _Yeah,_ " he says as Cas rolls his hips through a smooth in-and-out stroke. He's less careful, now, tugging at Cas's hair and arching up to nip at Cas's neck; Cas makes low noises of pleasure at the back of his throat. 

(Sometimes Dean wonders if the real reason Cas encourages him to bite, to pull at Cas's hair, to leave whatever marks he might is that it allows Cas to know that Dean is _real_ , that what they have between them is real.) 

Castiel's hands curve around the tops of Dean's thighs, smallest fingers brushing hipbones as he pulls Dean closer still.  "Gonna fuck you now." He _growls_ the words and Dean laughs breathlessly. 

There are no more words, not really, after that—just the soft sounds of skin on fabric covered by the sounds of skin-on-skin which are mostly lost under heavy breathing which is punctuated by grunts and huffs and encouragement. 

Dean is pretty sure that whoever decided that getting fucked meant you were passive had probably never _been_ fucked. It's not like he has a wealth of experience to draw on, but so far he's damn sure that he's spent a total of maybe five minutes being 'passive' since they'd started having penetrative sex, and _that_ was basically "holding still so Cas could get a finger into him" passivity. At the moment, however, he's definitely a full participant in the proceedings—and definitely using everything he'd learned to push Cas over the edge. Not that Cas is there, not quite yet. 

"Go on," he says, one hand still fisted in Cas's hair, the other braced behind himself so he can bite at Cas's shoulders. "Leggo, Cas, jus', jus' leggo an'—" His arm gives way and his back arches as Cas changes his angle and the resulting wash of ecstasy blanks Dean's brain. He knows what's next and tries to anchor himself by digging his heels into the backs of Cas's thighs and his fingers into the bedding. 

Cas supports himself with one hand, pressing the other over the center of Dean's chest. Pleasure—carnal, worldly, decidedly lacking in sin—twists through his grace, the two pooling in already-trembling muscles and strung-out nerves; he feels a scrabbling at his hand and opens his eyes long enough to understand what Dean wants. Their fingers mesh together on sweat-slick skin and Cas thrusts thrusts _thrusts_ home one last time—

He always thinks he's ready for it and he's always wrong. Dean moans as white heat flares over him, through him; as the grace that sweeps along his veins and arteries collides with his soul and the resulting brilliance leaves him stunned. He forces his free hand to uncurl as Cas, still shivering, flops down on top of him. "I got you," Dean manages between his own shaky breaths, wrapping his arm around the angel. 

"Mm," Cas says, then licks salt from Dean's neck where it flows into his shoulder. 

"Okay?" Dean says, running fingers through Cas's hair. 

"'M Good," Cas says, "you?"

"Awesome." 

Castiel muffles his amusement against Dean's neck, then pushes himself up off of Dean. He dots kisses from the man's mouth over his throat and collarbones, down along the midline of his body, his cock slipping from Dean as he moves. 

Dean is still getting his bearings, but that doesn't stop his own erection from twitching as Cas's tongue teases at his navel. He lets his knees fall wide as Cas kisses the head of his dick; humming in appreciation as Cas slides two fingers into him once more. When Cas goes down (and down, and _down_ all the way down) on him, he presses the back of his hand over his mouth in an effort to stay quiet.

Castiel keeps Dean on edge with twisting fingers and a just-clever-enough tongue, with exquisite timing and the decided advantage of his celestial senses. His desire to taste Dean wins out after a couple of minutes, however, and he presses up, in; he rubs and sucks and brushes his thumb over Dean's knuckles where their fingers are yet tangled together. 

He'd never been the type to call on God during sex, which turned out to be a blessing when he and Cas had first started sleeping together. The temptation to start, however, came over Dean from time to time, usually about the time that Cas was most of the way to driving Dean out of his mind. Like now. Now, with his toes curling and free hand holding desperately fast to the comforter and his teeth sinking into his lower lip and his orgasm—Just—Just—

 _There._ A long, low moan forces itself through Dean's teeth as he comes, comes undone, comes unstrung safe in the hands of his angel. 

Castiel savors the myriad flavors as they spread across his tongue before he swallows; pets and licks at Dean until the man settles into the hazy drift of afterglow. Feeling pleasantly lazy, tonight, Cas uses a flicker of power to clean them up before he slithers up alongside Dean. 

Dean grumps wordlessly as the two of them flail about until they're curled up under the bedding, until he's spooned up behind Cas and holding him tight. 

"Yer right," Cas mumbles, leaning back into the embrace. 

"Mm?" 

"Slow's good." 

"Mm." Sleep carries them off—Cas doesn't _need_ to, but he can if he chooses to, and choose he does—into the darkness so completely that they're oblivious when Sam comes in twenty-five minutes later (and when he swears about the bed left for him at the twenty-seven-and-a-half minute mark).


End file.
